


three worthy beings

by emmyeccentric



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Season/Series 06, Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: "His eyes finally adjust to the rising sun, after she leaps out of the bed and backs herself to a corner of the room. This is not their home, their tiny cottage on the hill. This is foreign, with softer sheets and smoother walls. A giant window lets the sunrise spill across the blankets. And the look on Regina’s face is just as bewildering as his surroundings as she holds a trembling hand to her mouth."Or, the one where Robin's back and everyone is very confused. And someone does cocaine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create." - Charles Beaudelaire

He wakes in a cocoon of unfamiliar softness, aware of an unusual hue of light. With eyes still closed, he reaches a tentative hand out to his wife, and he would normally find comfort in the warmth of her body next to his, if it weren’t for the jolting scream she lets out at his touch. His eyes finally adjust to the rising sun, after she leaps out of the bed and backs herself to a corner of the room. This is not their home, their tiny cottage on the hill. This is foreign, with softer sheets and smoother walls. A giant window lets the sunrise spill across the blankets. And the look on Regina’s face is just as bewildering as his surroundings as she holds a trembling hand to her mouth.

“ _How_ are you here?” Tears make her voice wet and flimsy like paper.

This woman, this gorgeous creature, with her chopped tendrils, looks like his wife, feels like his wife as he slept next to her (Did he sleep? Is he still asleep?)

“Regina?” He chokes.

“Robin?”

“Where am I?” he breathes.

“Storybrooke. Do you remember?” She stays at the other side of the room, establishing a palpable distance between her and his half-awake self.

“Storybrooke? Have I been asleep? How long have I been unconscious? Where’s Hope?” And for the first time since he woke, it registers, she is as lithe and contoured as the day they met in the tavern. She was weeks from giving birth the last time he saw her, the real her.

“Hope?” With every question her eyes grow larger and search harder for a possible answer.

“ _Our_ daughter?” This can’t be happening. Robin swallows and runs a frustrated hand through his hair in an attempt to salve the empty feeling at his core. “And the baby?”

“Robyn is with Zelena, at the farmhouse. But you have no idea who that is. Do you?” Regina looks up at the ceiling with tear-stained cheeks, and it takes everything in him not to rush to hold her.

“I can’t say that I do, milady.” He slowly gets up from the bed, dressed in a pair of cotton pants that look nothing like his nightclothes, and she quickly darts away.

“Regina...” The empty feeling in his chest has been replaced with a dull ache.

“I don’t know,” she cries, “How do I know you’re him? I don’t know!”

“I know you’re you. I can feel it. I trust my instinct,” he nods with a sad smile. “Your middle name is Victoria.” He takes one step towards where she stands in front of the large window. “Your mother was Cora, your father was Henry. Your birthday is in the second month.” One more step. Her tense shoulders start to loosen from her body, but fear is still pulled taut behind her eyes. “You were married to King Leopold.”

“Were?”

“Until the night we met. Until we fought for each other. We got it annulled. You don’t remember.” He steps to her and their faces nearly touch.

Her laugh is dry and it hurts him. “This...is insane. This is not real. You were gone, you couldn’t come back. We buried you!” Unable to stifle the pain and fear any longer, he grabs her face and pulls her to him. He pours as much love as he can into the kiss, wondering exactly how much love it takes to make someone believe. She sighs into his mouth and he pulls away. She goes to the table at her bedside and gets a large piece of parchment that looks worn, like it’s been ripped to pieces. The portrait on it is a favorite memory, one that he could relive again and again and die a happy man.

“It’s you,” she murmurs in awe.

“It’s me. And I think it’s you.” He fills his chest and tries to let out some of the worry in his breath. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

He follows her downstairs to her kitchen, taking in this vast reality that looks so different then his own. She glances at a tiny parcel with a glowing screen.

“7:30,” she remarks as she puts the coffee in a tiny cup that looks like something made for the fairies, and puts the cup in an even more daunting looking contraption and presses a button. The brew’s thick smell fills the air less than a minute later.

“Okay”, she pauses, “What’s the last thing you remember? Where is the last place you remember?” She places a full, warm cup in his hands.

“The Enchanted Forest. We live there. We lived there. I fed the horses and helped you put Hope to bed. We fell asleep soon after. You were tired.” He has not let go of the picture she gave him, and runs a finger down its smooth, weathered surface.

“Hope,” she stares down at the kitchen table, unable to meet his eyes, “How old is she?”

“Six. She loves riding, like you did. She has the purest most genuine heart of anyone I’ve known. She has dark hair and blue eyes, like mine. She loves you.” It feels so distant, telling this woman their story that somewhere lives on. It may be the most painful thing he’s ever had to do.

“Do we,” she swallows thickly, “have any more children?”

“Yes. And no.” The baby. He prays to the Gods above that somewhere between this realm and the next, that his beautiful girl and this child is okay. That the Regina he loves is there to protect them like she always has.

“What?” Her brows fold together in that endearing way he sometimes dreams about night.

“You’re...she’s pregnant. The other you.” Regina brings a slightly shaking hand to her abdomen, her face empty for a moment. After years, together, after all her mother put her through, he knows that face well. It’s devastating every time. “We’re pretty sure we are having a son. You wanted to name him Henry. After your father.”

“Henry!”, she gasps, and grabs the tiny glowing box. She frantically dots her fingers across it and presses it to her ear. After a few seconds, she beams, and lets out a heavy breath. “Thank God you’re alright...listen, something very weird and maybe dangerous is happening. Everyone’s there? Emma? Your grandparents? I’ll be at the loft in an hour. Okay. See you then. Love you too.”

Robin, if it’s possible, has grown even more lost in the past ten minutes than he has this entire twisted morning.

“That was _my_ son...Henry.”

Robin’s battered heart drops even lower.

“Where is his father?”

“He passed away recently. It’s complicated. I share my son with his birth mother. I can’t have children of my own, in this place anyway. I raised another woman’s.” She walks over to where he sits and gently rubs her fingers across his jaw. “I just can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes once more. She lays a kiss to his forehead, and moves to his lips before he gives her a gentle nudge.

“What is it?” She cocks her head to the side so that he can meet her eyes.

“I don’t know. You feel like the same woman. I know I love you. I want to love you,” he pleas to himself, “It’s different. You’re different. This morning I felt as if you were the same, but the more I come to know, the more I realize...”

“...that I’m not the same woman.” He swears he can see her soul shatter.

“Give me time, Regina. This damn well might be a dream. We need to figure this out before anything.” She backs away and returns her attentions to her coffee.

“There are some of your old clothes in my closet upstairs. You can get dressed, and then we’ll go talk to someone that may be able to help.”

“Who is it?” he asks.

“My son. They call him The Author.”


End file.
